


Consider the Fairer Sex

by tiltedsyllogism



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Crack, F/F, Other, Pre-Canon, Self-cest, Time Travel, did i mention crack, maybe "time travel self-cest" gave it away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 21:11:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19035667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism/pseuds/tiltedsyllogism
Summary: A young Phryne Fisher receives a series of perplexing messages from an improbable source.





	Consider the Fairer Sex

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so what you have to understand is that I come from _Sherlock_ fandom, and _Sherlock_ fandom is absolutely batshit. Of course there are plenty of straight-up romances, and casefics, and little domestic fluff pieces, but then there’s also a vast wealth of kink and of wacky AUs, and many many fics that check both of those boxes. There’s Sherlock as a fawn, or a vengeful mermaid. (dozens, if not hundreds, of each of these.) There’s John as a bat, and as… whatever OctoJohn is. There are many fics in which Sherlock is an immortal being, or a robot. If you think any of these conditions is an impediment to sex, _Sherlock_ fandom is very ready to correct this misapprehension. There’s all kinds of BDSM, biologically plausible and otherwise, and thriving sub-communities for any of several poly relationships. One of the biggest pairings is sibling incest. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of mpreg fics. There’s the one where Sherlock has a detachable penis. Vampire fics barely register as AUs. It is, in a nutshell, utterly bonkers.
> 
> Anyhow, when I got to MFMM fandom, I found myself wondering “where is all the crazy stuff?” I never wrote any of it myself in _Sherlock_ , and in fact rarely sought it out as a reader, but I still liked that it was there: I liked how it stimulated a kind of joyful imaginative recklessness among writers, and made it possible for people to take risks and write about the weird shit that made them happy or turned them on. 
> 
> Thus, it is in the spirit of benevolent enweirdening that I offer this piece. I hope you have fun reading it!

********

The slip of paper was propped against her hairbrush on the vanity in the girls’ powder room, as if it had drifted there rather than being deliberately placed. Phryne, who had seated herself in front of the mirror in preparation for her morning toilette, picked it up and read it. 

_Consider the fairer sex._

Now that was peculiar. There was no signature, nor any explanatory preamble. The handwriting, while provokingly familiar, was not exactly that of anyone she knew. Perhaps the closest match (other than her own) was her mother’s, but her mother could always be counted upon to begin any communication with some lavishly expressive form of address. (There was a bit of delight in putting this particular detail to use: Phryne had always fancied herself something of an ingenue sleuth, and she had stored away this observation about her mother’s letter-writing during her first months at school, in the conviction that it would come in handy one day—as indeed now it had.)

Come to think of it, the note was not addressed to her directly. Despite the disconcerting whiff of familiarity, she could not be certain that this cryptic communication was intended for her at all.

Phryne set the note back down on the vanity and returned her attention to the mirror. 

__

Phryne discovered the second note several days later, tucked into the fold of her scarf. It was in the same hand, on the same delicate paper, and likewise unsigned.

_Give your best attentions to the women in your life._

Phryne considered this new piece of advice as she wound the scarf around her neck. Though this message was just as cryptic as the first, it might—Phryne thought, reveling just a touch in the prospect of more sleuth-work—nonetheless contain further clues to the whole scheme.

First was the bare fact of its existence. Whoever had left the initial note had not abandoned whatever plan had driven them to that first attempt at communication. Secondly, it was now clear that Phryne was indeed the intended recipient: her scarf was quite distinctive, and indeed an object of both awe and mockery among the other girls at LeFourneax’s Finishing School. It had been a gift from Aunt Prudence, and a predictably dowdy floral print, though the feel of the fine lawn against her skin was absolutely delicious and she couldn’t bear to spurn it for the coarser wraps in her closet.

The third detail of note, and perhaps the most enlightening, was the turn of phrase, calling her attention specifically not merely to females (as in the first missive) but to “women.” For who indeed were these? It was absolutely impossible that this strange note writer should mean Mme. LeFourneaux, who already demanded a larger share of Phryne’s attention than she possibly deserved; and the other two instructors at the Finishing School were more girls than women, hardly older than Phryne herself—and, more to the point, hardly more worthy of sustained attention than their thoroughly uninspiring headmistress herself. But then, Phryne had heard a handful of her classmates refer to themselves and their peers as “women,” in an effort to demonstrate that they considered themselves serious persons, much to the chagrin of the headmistress. (So too had Lizzie done, in some of her more recent letters, which Phryne supposed was the sort of thing that female medical students might well judge to be necessary.) 

Surely, then, the mysterious note-writer must be directing Phryne’s attention toward her coevals. Moreover, she must be one of those bold few who reckoned herself and her peers deserving of such language.

It was a short list. Phryne considered them in turn as she did up the buttons of her coat, turning over the possibility of each as the letter-writing culprit. Alice and Constance were right out: both were far too forthright (not to say abrupt, which after all would be unkind) to skulk about hiding notes. Margaret was likewise impossible: she had been away visiting family the day the first note appeared. Lucy was far too gentle to play a prank of this kind. This sort of stunt was typical of Harriet—they two had had a good number of laughs together over the odd harmless caper, and it would be just like her, really. But Phryne knew Harriet’s handwriting on sight, from all the notes they passed in Etiquette class. And in any case, that girl –er, woman-- couldn’t keep a secret if her very life depended on it; her smile always gave her away.

Phryne became conscious of how very warm she had become. Well, it was no wonder: here she was in the foyer, all bundled for the outside. She pushed open the school’s front door and let the cold air drive the frivolity from her head.

__

Hardly a full day had elapsed before the third note appeared on her pillowcase. This was rather a more serious matter: the school’s dormitory rooms were tiny—smaller even than the bedroom she had shared with Janey growing up, barely large enough for a bed and chest of drawers—but this little charmless cell was hers alone, and the door locked.

Phryne leaned against that locked door, her hand on the knob at the small of her back, and stared at the slip of paper. But she could not ignore it forever—if nothing else, eventually she would have to move it so she could go to bed. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, called upon her courage, and stepped forward to gather it from her pillow.

_The most exquisite pleasure and satisfaction is to be found among your own kind._

Phryne nearly laughed in sheer frustration. Was this a riddle? A threat? What gave this mysterious stranger the right to speak of something so personal as pleasure? The handwriting, she was now sure, was a deliberate mimicry of her own, if a bit more fanciful and stylized. What had seemed at first a minor distraction, a diverting riddle to muse over in an idle moment, had come to feel increasingly like an invasion of the most intimate kind. Some stranger—no, worse: some unknown person with access to her most private spaces—was seeking to exert influence on her inmost understanding. 

“It won’t work,” Phryne declared—quite without intention, which seemed rather to undermine the force of the statement. Why had she spoken aloud? It wasn’t as if the invader could hear her in this private chamber.

Unless perhaps they could. They had, after all, gained entry to the room through a locked door to which she held the only key. What else might they accomplish? What else might they know?

Phryne allowed herself only a brief moment of panic at the thought, and then collected her wits. It was likely all a prank, just a silly overblown prank, but it would be foolish not to take steps to protect herself. She crumpled the note into a ball and cast it into the corner.

The bedframe was the only piece of freestanding furniture in the room—the shelving for her clothes being firmly nailed to the wall—but it was solid, and indeed rather heavy. It was something of a feat of engineering to rotate the bed in that tiny room, but after a few moments’ exertion, Phryne had managed to push the bed up against the door, the homely oak headboard a firm bulwark against any would-be intruder.

It would not be entirely comfortable to sleep with her head toward the door, heavily blockaded as it was, but there was nothing to be done. Today had been long, and tomorrow would be longer still; she must sleep. Phryne slowly changed into her pyjamas, extinguished the sconce-lamp that was now across the room from the bed, and took her time about arranging herself under the coverlet. Once lying down, exhaustion hit her, and she sank back gratefully into the sensation. Apprehensive though she might be, the combination of fear and physical labour had left her drained enough that sleep was indeed within reach. 

Perhaps, she thought drowsily, this mystery business was more than she was quite comfortable with after all. Or perhaps it was simply that she was tired. She would raise the question with herself again in the morning.

\---

It was a strange brush of air that awoke her: strange because there were never any breezes in that little airless chamber—the one pitiful square of window was barely half a foot across, and in any case did not open--and stranger still in its character, full of odd scents and an ineffable whisper of excitement. Phryne shifted beneath her bedclothes. Her mind felt foggy, her eyes heavy: surely she could drift back to sleep. But no, her blood was for some reason astir. 

She dragged her eyes open, and was startled to discover that the sconce was once again burning, though only at half-mark, and was somehow was further dimmed—she was shielded from its direct glow by some obstacle. As her eyes cleared, the intervening object resolved in her vision: a person. There was a person in her room. The slender silhouette of a woman, perched on the foot of her very bed.

“Well, it’s about time,” declared the woman-shaped shadow.

Phryne yelped and scrambled up and back against the headboard, her blood shrieking into wakefulness inside of her. She was helpless: clothed only in pyjamas, no weapon of any kind to hand. And, by her own exertions, quite securely sealed in.

Which was odd, now she considered it.

“How… how did you get in here?” she asked, around the frantic battering of her heart.

The shadowed stranger tipped her head, as if in thought. “I suppose that’s as good a question as any to start with. But I’m afraid the explanation won’t satisfy you—it’s utterly absurd. Until a few weeks ago, I could hardly have believed it myself.”

This was not an answer, properly speaking. But all the same, Phryne felt her fear draining away. Perhaps it was the disarming warmth of the woman’s voice, or the casual ease of her comportment. It might have been the strange sense of familiarity that had crept in, without giving notice or asking leave, infusing Phryne with the unshakeable impression that this stranger was no stranger at all, and perhaps even a friend.

Still, she reminded herself sternly: she was owed an answer.

“Tell me how you got into my room,” Phryne repeated, as haughtily as she could manage while clad in pyjamas.

“All right.” The shadow-woman rearranged herself into a more erect posture, causing her dangling earrings to catch the light. “It was time travel.”

Phryne felt her throat clench in fear. This strange interloper was a madwoman.

“Believe me,” the woman continued, “I know how ridiculous this sounds. It takes a great deal of effort to transmit even a slip of paper backwards through time, which is why I tried that first. Three times, actually.”

Three times. Phryne’s eyes went, without her bidding, to the corner of the room where she had flung the latest of the three mysterious notes. Though the lamp burned but dimly, the crumpled wad of paper was visible. 

“Sending myself back was quite a production,” the stranger continued. “It’s usually an honor reserved for the member of a shaman’s own tribe—and they’re very private, you know. But I do have a bit of pull with the local community.” She bobbed her head, and once again her earrings sparkled in the lamplight. “The shaman’s brother is—rather a friend of mine.”

This was, at once, an overwhelming amount to take in, and no help at all. Phryne squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would enable her to exert control over this strange new deposit of information, which of course it did not. As bizarre an explanation as it was, the stranger’s telling had the ring of—well, if not of truth, at least of non-fabrication. But if Phryne was less alarmed than she had been a moment ago, she was no more enlightened. So much did she overflow with questions that she could hardly find the footing to ask them.

“I still don’t understand how…”—but no, that was the least of it—“and who… and why you’ve, you’ve, come _here_ of all places, and why should I….”

The stranger shook her head and rose from her perch on the bed, casting Phryne herself still deeper into shadow. “It’s all too much to explain, I should have realized. Look….”

“I _can’t_ look,” Phryne replied, a bit petulantly. 

The stranger paused, and turned a shadowed face toward her.

“You’re in my light,” Phryne added, by way of clarification.

“Ah,” the woman remarked. She stepped over to the sconce, turned it up to full strength, and then stepped aside, becoming at last visible in the full lamplight.

Phryne stared at the interloper, somewhat dazzled. Her first impression was of red lips and a splendid silk costume to match, a crimson charmeuse blouse and coffee-brown trousers, with a sheer duster that mixed these and other colors together in an autumnal print of some kind. The second was that this stranger bore more than a passing resemblance to Phryne herself, though her expression bespoke a combination of toughness and good humor that seemed quite uncharacteristic of any of the Fishers that Phryne had known. The woman’s hair was bobbed (a rather severe style, Phryne thought, though rather flattering once one had adjusted one’s expectations) and her earrings—faceted red gems of some kind—fell just a bit further than her hair. She looked to be about in her mid forties.

“Do you see now?” the woman asked.

“That’s, ah, quite a lovely ensemble,” said Phryne. “But no, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Phryne Fisher.” The woman sat down on the bed and leaned toward Phryne, at once conspiratorial and challenging. “Look at my face. Listen to my voice.” Phryne stared back, uncomprehending, and the woman gave a huff of disgust. “Think about my _handwriting,_ that’s a thing I used to care about, I think.”

Phryne recalled the handwriting of the three notes, their mysterious familiarity. “Yes, it does resemble mother’s….”

“And yours,” the stranger added pointedly.

“Yes, and mine. But why does it matter what you used to…” 

The woman gave a frustrated laugh. “My goodness, how obtuse I was. Phryne, I’m _you._ ”

Phryne choked on her own breath. “What?”

“I’m you,” the woman said. “In the future, about twenty-five years on.”

Phryne crossed her arms, affronted, a gesture which would have chagrined Mme LeFourneux—though surely even she would have understood how so coarse an action might be forgiven, or even required, in such a moment.

“I do realize this is improbable,” the stranger continued. “But surely it’s no _less_ improbable than any alternative you can imagine.”

Phryne examined the face in front of her. The resemblance was indeed striking, now she considered it. The effortless grace and buoyancy of the stranger’s carriage conferred a glamour that Phryne found as wholly foreign as it was enticing. But beneath the red lips and the exquisite polish lay the same nose, the same jawline, the same fair skin. If this woman were to grow her hair out, and to take up the lemon juice treatments that Phryne used to lighten her own hair, it might be believable.

And there was the handwriting.

“All right,” Phryne declared, feeling distant surprise at her own equanimity in these most peculiar circumstances. “You’re me. From the future.” Once spoken aloud, it seemed almost reasonable. “But why? Why are you here?”

The face of the woman—her older self, Phryne supposed—grew sober. “There’s something important I need you to understand about yourself.”

Again, Phryne recalled the three notes. “That’s right. I’m supposed to ‘pay greater attention to the women in my life,’ was that it?” 

“Yes, exactly,” other-Phryne said.

Phryne was suddenly very tired. “This is quite a long way to come to say something so trivial. I’ve plenty of girlfriends. There’s Harriet, and, umm… Margaret and Alice and Lucy.”

Other-Phryne raised her eyebrows. “And Mac…?”

It took Phryne a moment to understand. “Oh, Lizzie! She did say she likes to be called that now.” Phryne paused, considering the import of her future self’s easy recourse to this newly-chosen nickname. “I guess this means she’ll stick with it.” Phryne had been privately hoping it would be just a phase on Lizzie’s part; she couldn’t help thinking that “Mac” sounded rather mannish. 

“Anyhow,” she continued, “yes, that’s just my friends here at school. So you see. Plenty of friends.”

“Yes,” other-Phryne said, slowly. “But don’t neglect the question of sex.”

Phryne blinked, affronted. “Excuse me. I’ve plenty of beaux. I’m not…” she blushed, confused by the strangeness of feeling exposed to someone who was, in fact, herself. And who, by rights, ought to remember this without being told. “I’m not _inexperienced._ ”

But other-Phryne, far from accepting correction, only sighed and rolled her eyes. “You’re quite hopeless, aren’t you? I suppose we’ll have to resort to some direct instruction.” She slid closer to Phryne on the bed. “Do you trust me?”

“I…” Phryne struggled a moment. As terrifying and improbable as it seemed, she could not manage to disbelieve that this woman was, in fact, her future self. And if that was true—if this was her own older self speaking to her—then Phryne must trust her. How could she do otherwise?

“I do,” she said, feeling strangely breathless.

Other-Phryne gave a small, firm nod. With her eyes locked on Phryne’s own, she slid still closer, until their knees nearly touched. Then other-Phryne lifted her right hand and slowly extended it toward Phryne.

“Is this all right?” other-Phryne asked, in a low voice.

Phryne felt herself nod, as if from a great distance. It all felt very slow, as if every thought, every movement, was passing through syrup.

And then, her touch delicate, other-Phryne cupped her hand around Phryne’s breast. Phryne felt her breath catch, her mind rattling in confusion as her skin whispered of pleasure. Then other-Phryne stroked her thumb across Phryne’s nipple, and the inner cacophony was drowned in a rush of ecstasy. She moaned aloud.

Other-Phryne smiled. “Not the form of self-pleasure you’re accustomed to.”

Phryne’s pleasure dimmed as her stomach curdled in embarrassment. But then, why should she be embarrassed by this woman’s knowledge of her private habits, when the other was no other, but herself? Once again, the strangeness of the situation threatened to overwhelm her. But then she felt a finger at her lips—other-Phryne’s finger, pressing her mouth shut and urging silence—and then, once more, the dazzling exquisite burst of pleasure as other-Phryne’s thumb again brushed over her nipple. 

“Have any of your beaux touched you this way?” other-Phryne murmured.

A third brush, and Phryne’s lips parted in pleasure. She closed them around other-Phryne’s fingertip and sucked at it gently, laving it gently with her tongue. Other-Phryne made a small, damp gasp, and Phryne sucked harder at the finger in her mouth. The other slipped her hand from Phryne’s mouth to grasp her head and pull their mouths together.

The kiss was intense, but it was gentle, nothing like the boys who pushed their tongues into her mouth, or even slobbered in their eagerness (a thing that had, unfortunately, happened more than once.) This kiss burned with sweetness, and was the more enticing for its delicacy. Then other-Phryne gave her lower lip a sharp nip, and Phryne felt herself grow suddenly wet. The gush of heat shocked her, and she felt for a brief moment embarrassed: in past encounters, she had always decorously reserved such extravagances for when her beau’s arbor vitae was already inside her. But now she wondered whether it reflected a deficiency on the part of her past liaisons. Why should she wait for pleasure until the very crest of the event? For that matter, why must a man rely on his tackle to coax forth enjoyment from his lover? It was becoming ever more apparent to her that the entire body could be an organ of pleasure, if properly deployed.

Other-Phryne slid her right hand from Phryne’s breast to the buttons of her pyjama top and began to undo them, one by one, drawing her hand down the button-band as she went. The air was cold on her bare skin, but underneath she was molten, and the gentle touch of other-Phryne’s hands across her stomach and breasts drew forth burning shivers. Other-Phryne’s hand once again found her breast, gently rubbing the nipple between her fingers, and Phryne felt that she might expire from the intense crush of pleasure building in her body.

Phryne reached out to caress other-Phryne through her silken top, and felt a darker heat spike inside of her as she traced delicate lace undergarments and the curve of the body beneath.

“I want—” she gasped. “I want to touch you.”

Other-Phryne paused, as if caught out. In the split-second pocket of coolness that followed, it occurred to Phryne that perhaps other-Phryne had not herself sought or expected pleasure from this encounter: after all, as other-Phryne had herself said, the purpose of the visit was to help Phryne realize her own desires. Phryne’s joy receded, just a bit, at the thought that this was not a shared venture. But no, a flush had risen to other-Phryne’s cheek, and Phryne had heard her gasps and moans. Perhaps she only needed reminding. 

Delicately, Phryne drew her thumb across other-Phryne’s nipple, as other-Phryne had first done to her. she did it again, a slow deliberate drag, then leaned forward to gently push the duster from the other’s shoulders. Other-Phryne stood, and for a split-second Phryne worried she had overstepped, but other-Phryne leaned down, touched her briefly on the cheek, and began undoing the buttons on her trousers. Phryne wasted no time shedding her own pyjama top and pulling off her pyjama pants, then lay back on the bed. Other-Phryne pulled her blouse over her head, shook her head so that her hair settled back into place, and smiled. Her flame-colored garments lay in a silken pool on the floor, and she now wore only a black lace brassiere and silken knickers. Her ivory skin gleamed in the lamplight.

Other-Phryne shimmied herself forward until they lay alongside each other in the narrow bed, their knees touching and their faces nearly so. “Shall we continue?” she murmured softly.

Phryne felt a glimmer of awe at other-Phryne’s beauty, a sensation which percolated uneasily but inevitably into awe for herself, and for the potential that lay inside her: her own magnificence, and this secret language of pleasure she had not known she possessed. 

Unable to speak, and nodded assent.

Other-Phyne leaned forward and took Phryne’s mouth with her own, giving small teasing kisses that provoked an exquisite hunger. Firm, by contrast, was her hand on Phryne’s abdomen, her palm soft and warm on that tender skin. As her maddening kisses continued, other-Phryne trailed her hand downward, into the tangle of sable fur and down further, into the heat and wetness of her inlet. Phryne almost cried aloud as other-Phryne touched an exquisitely tender spot of her nethers, drawing forth a starburst of pleasure.

“That,” Phryne panted, into other-Phryne’s mouth. “Do that again.”

She felt the other’s lips curve in a smile, and she again rubbed her fingers over that superbly sensitive spot. Phryne lunged up to crush their mouths together as other-Phryne rubbed her again and again. Phryne was shaking, barely able to control her hand as she reached up to squeeze and paw at other-Phryne’s breast through the lace of her brassiere. Phryne’s insides were convulsing, her head felt as if it was filling with helium, her blood sang and burned. If her future self were not before her, she might readily believe that she would suffocate from the intensity of it.

Then other-Phryne broke their kiss and slid downward. She took Phryne’s nipple in her mouth and sucked. A moment later her hand returned to that supremely sensitive spot. And as if it had been a tightly-wound spring, all at once the bottled-up pleasure roared forth. Phryne heaved and moaned, her whole body juddering as the pleasure took its course through her, crash upon crash, until she felt herself reduced to stillness.

A gentle hand stroked her knee.

“So,” said other-Phryne. “Are you persuaded of the pleasures to be had with women?”

Through the haze of exhausted elation that now suffused her, Phryne felt a bright twinkle of mischief. She was, she knew, a sexual naïf compared to her older self; why, barely an hour ago she had not even realized that women could find pleasure with one another, as well as with men. But there was one sort of more exotic pleasure she had heard about, one which had piqued her curiosity but which she had been unable to coax from any of the three men of whom she had requested it. She had, indeed, almost despaired of experiencing it, for it seemed that men were, on the whole, a cowardly bunch, or else simply uninterested in any form of sexual contact that did not redound to their own enjoyment. She could not imagine a better opportunity to try it.

“Almost persuaded,” she replied to her older self. “But not quite.”

Other-Phryne frowned. “What else will it take? That was as splendid a crisis as I’ve seen in—” she tipped her head, in calculation—“at least a couple of weeks.”

Phryne smiled back coyly. “’Tis better to give than to receive, isn’t it?” She leaned up to give other-Phryne a quick kiss, then wriggled down the bed until she was crouched at the foot of it, her face level with other-Phryne’s sable fur. From her prior experiences with self-pleasure, Phryne knew the smell of her own arousal to recognize it in her bed-partner.

Other-Phryne looked dubious. “Are you quite sure?” she asked. “Most women begin a bit more cautiously.”

Phryne grinned at her devilishly. “But we’re not most women, are we?”

Other-Phryne returned the grin, spread her legs, and led her head fall backward on the pillow. 

Phryne leaned forward, but found herself stymied by the tangle of hair. She walked her elbows forward to bring her hands closer and gently pushed open the outer folds of other-Phryne’s flower, revealing the soft petals of flesh beneath, and the small pink bud which must surely be the site of her own intense pleasure a few minutes ago.

She bent her head and touched her tongue to that nub, and was rewarded by a shaking gasp from other-Phryne. It was quite a success for a first foray, and Phryne pressed her advantage, licking the nub again and again. Above her, other-Phryne moaned and trembled. Phryne pushed herself up, eased her hand forward, and gently pushed a finger into the wet crevice of her inlet. Other-Phryne convulsed, and let out a soft cry. Encouraged, Phryne drew her finger out and pushed in again, eliciting another cry of pleasure. Phryne lowered her head to the other’s cleft and took the nub gently in her mouth, as she continued to push her finger in and out. 

Other-Phryne’s crisis took her by surprise, and it was only a happy turn of fate that she did not bite down in response to the sudden squeeze of other-Phryne’s thighs around her head. She quickly drew her face backward, but continued to probe inward and outward as other-Phryne shook with the force of her flood of bliss. When at last other-Phryne had stilled, Phryne clambered back up the bed and draped herself across her older self. Other-Phryne groaned quietly, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“I suppose,” Phryne said, in an impression of Aunt Prudence at her most-exquisitely put-upon, “that wasn’t _quite_ as trivial as I had thought.”

Other-Phryne gave a throaty laugh. “I should say not.” She stroked Phryne’s hair, then tipped up her chin with her finger. “I will say, I had thought I might have to resort to drastic measures to persuade you, but I hadn’t expected to enjoy them so much myself.”

Phryne felt the pinch of a lingering uncertainty, which had been swept away in the pleasures of the prior half-hour. “Why was it so very urgent?” she asked. “To persuade me, I mean. You clearly learned along the way about taking pleasure with women. Why couldn’t I simply wait and find out the way you did?”

A shadow passed over other-Phryne’s face, and she was quiet a long moment. “There are,” she said at last, “some opportunities that pass away.”

“Like what?” Phryne asked. And then, when other-Phryne remained silent, she repeated: “like what?”

Other-Phryne turned to her, blinking away whatever cloud has overcome her. “Oh, I mustn’t spoil all of the secrets of the future. Where’s the fun in that?” She bobbed her head. “Besides, there are some rules one must adhere to with this time-travel business.”

“But….”

Once again, other-Phryne pressed her fingers to Phryne’s lips. “I understand that you wish to know,” she said. “I do. I would tell you if I could. Just…” she dropped her hand to take Phryne’s own. “Pay attention to life as it comes. Enjoy the men who comes your way, of course. People will tell you that true love requires living in sexual isolation, and that’s hardly the case.” 

“So there _is_ someone in particular,” Phryne declared. She did not like to give up on a quest that had caught her attention, as this question had done; surely other-Phryne knew that about her.

Other-Phryne touched her cheek gently. “If you are very fortunate,” she said quietly. “Now go to sleep.”

It was true, she was quite sleepy. But all the same, she must know. “Will you tell me tomorrow?” Phryne asked.

“I’ll be gone long before morning, I’m afraid, ” other-Phryne replied. “These time-travel charms don’t last very long. It’s a matter of hours, unless you want a one-way ticket.”

Phryne felt a pang of loneliness. “But will I see you again?” she asked, hardly caring about the plaintive note that had infiltrated her voice.

Other-Phryne smiled. “Every day,” she replied. 

Phryne hugged her, hard, and other-Phryne embraced her in return, stroking her hair gently. A few seconds later Phryne fell forward into the empty bed. Other-Phryne had vanished.

Phryne leapt out of bed and glanced wildly around the room. A quick survey revealed that every trace of her older self had likewise disappeared. Phryne felt a brief shiver of disappointment at that; she had not had any particular designs on those clothes, but she certainly could have put them to good use had they remained. But no, they too were gone. 

Phryne wondered whether other-Phryne would return to her own present day arrayed as she had been when she departed, or whether she would land in the future in God’s own glory, with the pile of clothes beside her. The thought made her laugh. She herself, she was sure, would be quite mortified to appear suddenly in front of some others in such a state of undress, but she was equally certain that other-Phryne would be untroubled by such a turn. Indeed, it was hard to imagine a situation to which her future self would not prove equal.

Phryne turned off the lamp and climbed into bed. It had been a very strange night, and she would not be well-rested for the day to come. But that was all right. She could handle anything.


End file.
